I HAVE joined a gym. There is nothing wrong with my body, just that my weight needs a bit of redistribution - from my midriff to my chest and shoulders.
All right, I will be honest. Another reason I joined is that it is in a hotel, and the membership fee covers three hours of free parking. Now I can lift weights for one hour, and then lift beer bottles for the next two in the bar downstairs.
The trainer there is a tough gal. Last time I forgot to put the magazine back into the rack she went berserk and gave me a look that could kill. Who am I to argue with someone whose biceps are thicker than my thighs? The way she pushes us to the limit, with no regard for our lives, reminds me of the movie Ben Hur.
Mr Liu is here today. He and I have become instant friends, after running side by side on the treadmills a few times. In his case, it is more like walking. He suffers from Parkinson's disease and is trying hard to rejuvenate his body after years of neglect.
Mr Universe is here as well. He has this Napoleon complex like you would not believe. It is like saying: 'OK, so I'm short, but I'm wide.' He virtually lives here, I swear. Mr Liu and I do not like him. Not that we are jealous of his muscles or anything like that. We would not want to be like him anyway - we prefer having a neck and a paunch.
He is so immature. You know there are no young women around when you do not see Mr Universe carrying a thick chain which he uses, believe it or not, to tie extra weights to those machines for him to push or lift. Nothing is too heavy for him.
If there are young women around, Mr Universe will make a spectacle of himself by adding more weights on to his chain and grunting louder and louder, taking a break only to offer unsolicited fitness tips to the ladies, or admire himself in the mirror.